Blackberry Letters

You blink in surprise at Baby as she rolls around the corner. Well, that's one heck of a plot twist. Instant flashbacks to a long-ago summer swim through your mind's eye. The way he pushed your knees to your shoulders in the back seat, how deep he went as he stared into your eyes. That night at the carnival when you sucked him off in the fun house. The way his fingers just knew exactly where your spot was and how masterfully he manipulated it at the movie theater.

That was a long, long time ago, but now it feels like yesterday as you stand up and shield your eyes. You see him briefly, the sun's golden rays obscuring some of him with the sight of the dense trees that surround your home. Your stomach twists in the best way possible.

When the Impala rolls to a stop, he steps out and simply stares at you. He looks a little bit older, but the man has aged well. The slow smile that comes across his face is the one that you recall so vividly. It's the smile you often thought of late at night, with a vibrator pressed between your thighs. Back when you still wanted sex, and now again, now that you are capable of feeling something outside of pain. "Well, I'll be goddamned. I don't know whether to apologize or be happy to see you up here."

You shrug your shoulders, your own smile almost as large as his. "Cancer kills, Dean Winchester. Remember that funny little mole on my thigh? The one you said leads the way? Not so cute when it metastasizes. But I think I got an automatic pass up here from all my environmentally friendly behaviors," you smile as you tilt your head slightly. Walking forward, you flick the cigarette aside and sweep your arms around his broad shoulders.

His smile falters for only a beat, just enough to make you feel the weight of it. He apologizes with his eyes rather than killing the mood. "I'd say throwing all those butts on the ground might counteract the Smokey the Bear schtick you had on Earth. Shame about my little buddy, though. You can never trust the innocent-looking ones," he says with a dramatic sigh.

"Watch it. Keep that talk up, and I'll leave a nasty word with the higher-ups about you," you warn, and his eyes crinkle with delight as he laughs. His hands haven't left your hips, his thumb gliding over the waistband of your shorts, already inching downward.

"Baby, you don't even know half the things I've done to piss these guys off. I've got some stories that will make the hair on your arms stand straight up," Dean assures, suddenly scooping you into his arms. Another flashback floats through your mind to a long time ago, when you ran to him on the beach and how he swept you right up. His smile hadn't met his eyes, and he explained how he needed to leave. He had to go. Work called.

"Well, we officially have all the time in the world. No more work, right?" you ask, a little waver in your voice. His scent fills you, warm leather, pine, fresh toothpaste, and a little gunpowder. It's intoxicating as you look up into those familiar green eyes.

He seems initially surprised before a wave of peace slips over his face. "Yeah... yeah, we actually do," his voice is soft as his palm spreads flat against your stomach, his thumb having swept to your navel.

"Fuck it. Let's go for a swim. You can tell me everything," you smile as you step back, lifting your bikini up and over your head without a care. Topless and sun-kissed, you take off running toward the backyard with Dean hot on your trail.

Your drool drips down your chin, and you swallow reflexively around his tip. Every so often, he remembers you're there and he reaches down to stroke your cheek or to yank on your hair. During commercial breaks, he yanks you forward against his groin until your throat clicks around him. While the tinny Youtube videos talk about Milwaukee's best beer and where the beef supposedly is, he orders you to look up at him. "This is your destiny, doll. This is going to be your only job. Soon enough, all you're gonna need is to feel my cum hit the back of your throat and you'll be squirting on yourself." He's so smug when he says it, his green eyes glittering down at you. When he's using you like the cocksleeve you're becoming, he always has that look in his eyes. If you didn't know any better, you would assume this was his genuine happy place.

→ He drops a bindle of cash on your lap. "Go out and get yourself something pretty, we're going to a premiere. No panties, I need easy access." He grunts, as if his declaration holds no importance. He's never taken you on a public outing before, not one with cameras and the press. You can feel the way your eyes shine like some bubbly anime and he rolls his own. "No panties, do you hear me?"

"Why would I bother? You always tear mine up," you grumble, despite the smile forming on your lips as you count your cash with glee. He's generous, disgustingly so, and you know exactly which Louboutin's you want to purchase.

→ "I can't lift it!" You whimper as the bag slips out of your fingers. A pout forms on your lips as you shut the trash once more. You walk into the living room and clear your throat. "Baaabe," you whine in a simpering voice that doesn't truly sound like your own. You're all doe eyes and soft pout when he looks back toward you. "Baby, the garbage comes tomorrow and I can't get these bags out."

Ben should have a hangover, should have. He spent the weekend on a coke and whiskey binge that would make Tony Montana blush. Instead, he's bright eyed and bored, ready to hit the gym. "Yep, I got it. Fucking weak whore," he grumbles under his breath. He stands begrudgingly, passing you with a spank to your already sore ass. You smile to yourself as you move to the couch, ignoring the stinging ache when you sit down. It's time for Forensic Files.

→ He stares at you as he dumps your bottle of birth control down the garbage disposal. You shouldn't be surprised but you still stand there with your mouth open and your eyebrows furrowed. "Your pussy's good, but I need more. If you think you're going to stay in this house, you're going to at least make me a baby. I need something better than that piece of shit lunatic bathing in tit jizz."

You consider asking what on earth tit jizz is, but there's not enough time. He bends you over the kitchen table and whips your panties down. He spits on his hand to stroke his cock once before he forces himself inside. Instead of meeting resistance or a struggle, he sinks right into your soaked cunt and you clamp down around him with a low moan. "Yeah, that's right. I knew you wanted it too, Princess. Daddy's gonna fucking knock you up tonight." He digs his fingers into your hair to yank your head back as tears spring to your eyes. Your clit throbs as he begins to piston his hips, fucking you in those short, hard thrusts that rattle the table.

You should be furious. You are furious, technically. But a quieter, uglier part of you watches him mistake the decoy for the lock and nearly smiles.

→He splits her open with precision. You watch from your perch on her face and reach down to slap her clit while his cock slides back and forth into her slack cunt. Her lips are puffy and swollen, her clit hard and jutting out like a homing beacon that he ignores. He had already pounded her cervix into submission a few hours ago. She has a decent mouth, and unlike previous boring fucks, she actually ate your pussy with a measure of aptitude. You even shudder as she sinks one finger inside your ass. "That's it, Daddy. Beat that little pussy up, own that stupid cunt." You pant, shaking as you try to keep your orgasm at bay.

The look he gives you is close to besotted. There isn't a soft edge on your Ben during broad daylight. That's hidden for those quiet moments in the dark when he can argue that he did it in his sleep. But he grabs your chin and yanks you forward for a kiss. It's hard and sloppy, his tongue forced into your mouth for seconds before he shoots his load. You finally unclench and tremble as every wave of pleasure rocks through you, your cunt drooling down the brunette's chin. He sighs as he pulls out and gives her ass a spank. "Switch positions, eat her cunt," he orders you.

You suck her clit happily as you finger her. You don't waste a drop, not because you're a good girl, but because she doesn't deserve it. She's done nothing other than a day's worth of work. She doesn't get to leave with an ounce of Ben still left in her.

→"You could quit, you know." Ben says it casually, one hand idly stroking your hair. "You don't have to keep doing this day job shit." His voice is alarmingly soft. He's taken that tone with you more and more lately.

"It's not that bad, it's just not the dream-" your voice is tired, your eyes gritty from staring at your computer all day.

"It's not the dream at all. You want to sit around painting and doing that brain wave doodle shit, not human fucking resources. It's beneath you. You really care about health benefits and what that prolapsed asshole of a boss says in meetings?"

"Neurographic art," you correct him, though you don't answer his question.

"Stay home, maybe if you're less stressed you'll actually fucking get pregnant." It's an order, not a suggestion. You narrow your eyes and open your mouth, a fully prepared diatribe ready to be unleashed.

The next day, you calmly send your resignation from your draft folder.

→When it finally happens, he's watching the Islanders win the last Stanley cup in their dynasty period. You didn't even know he was interested in hockey until the weather started to get colder outside. Between his legs, you slurp mindlessly on his thick, pulsing cock. You trace the prominent vein with your tongue as your saliva drips down to his balls. "Fuck! God damn, you're gonna... wait, just wait until the commercial break," his voice is broken, he's unraveling as you bob your head furiously. You want to suck it right out of him, you earned that load. You're a good girl and you need to taste it.

Your cunt aches, grasping at nothing, your panties soaked. You clench your thighs shut as he stands and grabs the back of your head.

"Tune in for an all new episode of Johnny Carson, right after the 11 o'clock news!"

"FUUUUUUCK!" He roars as he jerks himself off in front of your lips, finally shooting into your wide open mouth. You close your eyes and feel it suddenly, that flurry of twitches in your clit as it throbs back and forth. Your face is pink from exertion and you press your forehead to his thigh, cum dribbling from the corner of your mouth as your shoulders shake.

"I love you so fucking much," Ben groans as he slumps down into the couch. He reaches for his nearby bottle of bourbon and takes a long swig. It's the first time he's ever said it and you look at him in surprise. "...Don't make a big deal of it." He adds when he catches that fawning gaze of yours.

On Monday, you make an appointment to have your IUD removed and preemptively purchase pregnancy supplements.

→The fact is, most people just don't understand that you're both turning the screws. You worked as a pair to get exactly what you both desired. You consider that as you stare at your canvas, beautiful shades of deep ochres are streaked across the white fabric. Soon, it will turn into a masterpiece, a view of a Tuscan village at sunrise. The house is quiet, the studio is yours, and nobody has asked you to be reasonable in months.

The first time Ben makes you orgasm, he doesn't even use his hands or tongue. Instead, he grabs you by your hair and presses his mouth to yours. Golden light floods the darkened, perfectly manicured lawn and the muffled sounds of a live band slip through the pick up's cracked window. His tongue slides between your lips and he claims you, roughly, brutally, unrepentant in his desires. He tastes like whiskey and he grinds his teeth in between kisses, rubbing his nose almost as shamelessly as you are grinding against his thigh. The material of his jeans combined with the flimsy mesh of your panties is the perfect pressure against your clit. You shudder as you clench your legs shut, bucking your hips. You're wet enough to leave a dark streak across his pants but he doesn't seem to care. Instead, he smirks in delight when you curse his name.

"Fucking snobs always cum the hardest for me," He drawls, proud of himself. "Look ma, no hands."

You want to roll your eyes, but he grabs your throat and makes you forget your religion instead. The terrible thing about fucking a townie is how damn good it is. It's not that he cares more about making you orgasm, he's just better at what he does. He isn't an Ivy League brat with no clitoral GPS, and he's been with enough women to do more than thrust until he gets his rocks off. No, he finds so much more satisfaction in the knowledge that he made you cum. Egotistical, arrogant, big dicked, and so good with it.

It started innocently at the start of the summer. His sneers when you walked on the grass, your eye rolls when you spotted his truck broke down one evening. When it escalated is hard to define, but it snowballed quickly into debauchery. You feel like Baby in dirty dancing with your date inside the country club wooing your mom. It's a social mixer that the rich folks adore, parading around their debutant daughters in summer dresses. While he casually charms your mom, you yank your panties to the side to let Ben in. He pauses for a moment at the sight of your bare cunt and rolls his eyes. "Landing strip? Go full bush, much hotter." he waves his hand at your soaked pussy like it offended him.

"Pay my tuition and I'll consider it." You shoot back with ease, a reminder of his landscaper position. The flash of annoyance that flickers through his expression is enough to make you beam. He squeezes your throat harder as he unzips his jeans with one hand. When his thick cock springs free, a dribble of precum clinging to the slit, your mouth waters. He doesn't bother putting on a condom and you wonder if secretly he wants to lock you up. Does he want you pregnant, weak, and living in his one bedroom shit box? The thought makes you grimace as you clench yourself around his shaft.

What pains you is how much you'd love being his full time whore. Ben stretches you with ease, sinking in deep enough to kiss your cervix as he holds your wrists down at your sides. Your legs twitch and your eyelids flutter, a huff of pain and pleasure exhaled from your chest. He holds you down as he thrusts up, the creaking of his truck unmistakable. It smells like dirt, grass, and stale sweat. The seat's upholstery is faded from the sun in certain places and torn in other spots. It's gritty, it's beneath you, and when he pins you to the seat you can feel the cheap vinyl scrape the back of your knee.

He uses you like a fleshlight, rough and selfish in a way that makes your eyes roll back in your head. He slips his hands underneath your ass to lift you up enough for his own comfort. Ben drills into you in a siege of merciless thrusts, hell bent on bringing you to climax again. His groin presses firmly forward, every so often rubbing your clit, but it's that incessant pounding that leaves you seeing stars. Your legs are boneless as they flail against him. He's stopped paying attention to you, simply using you until you drip down his balls.

Ultimately, the disrespect doesn't matter when he stiffens up, grinding his hips adamantly into your own as he pumps you full of him. His face contorts in ecstasy, you can feel the expression from where he buries his forehead in the crook of your neck and his balls tighten against your ass. The noises he makes are glorious, breathless, strangled, guttural grunts of deep satisfaction. You can feel each spurt of him taint your pretty pink insides. You lie there for a few moments attempting to decipher if you feel dirty or vindicated before he spanks the side of your ass. "That'll do pig," it's a line from a kid's movie, which one you can't recall. But he sits up and leaves you to dribble his load onto the seat without a care in the world.